


Soft

by IneffableSoulmates (IamJohnLocked4life)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining, Alcohol, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), pining!crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 12:32:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19229221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/pseuds/IneffableSoulmates
Summary: The night after the night they save the world, an angel and a demon and a case of champagne, and things that have been unsaid for centuries finally come to light.





	Soft

**Author's Note:**

> This fic utilises mouseover text and footnotes. The footnotes are linked to the bottom of the doc, and clicking "return to text" will bring you back up to your spot. However, since I don't really like hopping up and down docs, especially for minor asides, I also included a mouseover feature for every footnote, so you can simply hover over the footnote and the text will pop up. Please note that it takes a couple seconds for the hovertext to show up. Patience is a virtue (^_~)

“What shall we toast to this time?” 

Aziraphale was bent over a tower of books, trying to fish out a third bottle of Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin from the crate on the other side and not topple over, and Crowley was sprawled on the settee trying not to ogle the angel’s luscious arse, and failing spectacularly. Ah well, he was still a demon, whatever anyone Down There said about it, so he drained his glass and settled in to enjoy the view. Aziraphale wiggled back and forth, struggling to reach that elusive bottle, and Crowley sent up a silent curse. Sure, Hell had fire and brimstone and byzantine tax codes, but this right here was bloody torture. 

It had been getting harder over the millennia to resist temptation, something the demon had never been good at, and why should he be? It was at the heart of his nature. But resist he must, if he wanted to keep whatever this was going, and he very much did, needed to in fact, in order to keep himself going. Much as he hated to admit reliance on anyone or anything, Aziraphale was essential. He could not risk losing him, no matter the personal torment. 

And yes, at times his resolve weakened. Over the centuries, he’d tested the waters, dipped a toe in, but his sweet, naive angel was a skittish thing. One moment Aziraphale would be beaming up at him with that beatific smile, like he was something cherished, and the next he’d be making excuses and hurrying off, eyes darting away nervously like he couldn’t bear to look at him. Crowley knew it was his fault, it was always his fault, some inopportune offer of a ride home or suggestion they run off to Alpha Centauri together. He couldn’t help it, despite his best efforts. These things just somehow slipped out, and he’d be left standing alone, damning his weak will and loose tongue and stupid bleeding heart. 

Mercifully, Aziraphale let out a little cry of triumph and straightened up to a slightly less tempting posture, one hand steadying himself on the precarious stack of dusty tomes, the other brandishing an equally dusty bottle of champagne. 

“Well, wha’dya think?”

“Hmmm?” Crowley was trying not to find the angel’s slurred speech as adorable as he did. 

“Our toast!” Aziraphale stumbled back to the loveseat and flopped down next to him with a hiccup. “S’cuse me.” 

Crowley waved it away magnanimously, biting back any comment involving the word ‘cute’. Secretly he hoped the angel would do it again, and a moment later was rewarded with another “Hic!” followed by a flurry of giggles. He squirmed at the sensation sparked in his chest at the sound, and redirected his increasingly fuzzy focus back to the question at hand.

“Well les’see, we’ve already done the world, the universe, the heav’ns n’ seas n’ earth n’ below—” He’d insisted on that last one, much to the angel’s consternation, but they’d done Heaven and fair’s fair. “—and sushi, Bach, Bentleys, and ducks—” He ticked each off on a finger, switching hands when he ran out of digits. “—oh, humanity o’course, and witches in particular, n’ Adam—” At Aziraphale’s complaint that he couldn’t toast the antichrist, no matter what a nice boy he’d turned out to be, Crowley had suggested he toast the Other Adam, the one who’d started it all, and the angel had nodded sagely and raised his glass high. “—n’ Eve, and…” He shrugged helplessly. “Who else is there?”

Aziraphale was wrestling with the cork. “Well, there’s always us.” 

Crowley’s heart revved into high gear. “You… wanna toast… us?” He could hardly believe his ears. 

“I mean, we did have a hand in it, didn’ we? No harm in rec’nition when s’due.” The cork flew off with a loud pop and a delighted “Ah!” from the angel, followed by an “Oh no!” when foam spilled over his hands and ran down the side of the bottle. And Hell if the sight of all that frothy white coating his fingers didn’t make Crowley’s mouth water. He licked his lips and looked away.

“Right,” he croaked, and cleared his throat. “To us then, I s’pose.” 

“Yes, to—oh damn!” 

Crowley’s eyes flew back to Aziraphale in shock, but the angel apparently hadn’t noticed his slip, all focus directed on the large wet patch on the front of his waistcoat. He’d set the bottle on the book-strewn coffee table, and was now dabbing at the stain with his handkerchief. 

“And I just laundered the blasted thing yesterday,” he was saying, and Crowley would feel guilty, since it was clearly his influence that had the angel using such language, but like everything Aziraphale did, it was just so unbearably endearing that he couldn’t bring himself to regret a single word. 

“I could, y’know,” Crowley offered, pursing his lips and huffing out a gust of air, but Aziraphale’s gaze was fixed on his soiled clothing. “Blow you clean?” he tried, and immediately froze. Fuck, he had not meant for it to sound like _that_. Which was not to say he hadn’t  _ meant  _ it like that, but he wasn’t planning on saying it out loud, now or ever. Damned Freudian slips, and damn Freud too, while he was at it. 

But Aziraphale, sweet, innocent Aziraphale, didn’t even raise his head as he shook it, dismissing the offer. “S’alright, s’not perm’nent. It’ll come out in the wash.” He was still patting his stomach with the kerchief, the frown on his lovely brow deepening as he poked and prodded. “Bastard was right,” he muttered under his breath, and Crowley’s eyebrows shot to his hairline.

“Come again?”

Aziraphale sighed heavily and sank back against the cushions, letting the small square of white silk flutter to the floor in surrender.  

“Gabriel,” he said, and he sounded so defeated that Crowley had to curl his fingers into his palm to keep from reaching out to comfort. What comfort could a demon be to anyone, really, but especially to an angel. Stupid. 

“What about him?”

“He was right, ‘bout the whole gut bus’ness. M’ not a lean, mean, fight’n... whatever.” He jabbed his fingers into his belly again. “M’ soft.”

Crowley squinted at the damp waistcoat, trying to ignore how enticingly the fabric was stretched, how near the buttons were to popping out of their holes. “So?”

Apparently this was not the correct response, because Aziraphale dropped his hand and sighed again. 

“So m’sposed to be an angel. Guardi’n of th’East Gate, or some rubbish. Warriors. D’fenders of light.” He huffed with exasperation that bordered on scorn, and Crowley’s heart ached. “Could barely ev’n wield th’ sword.”

“Was convincing ‘nough to me,” Crowley said in what he hoped was a sincere tone. Then, fearing it was perhaps  _ too  _ sincere, added, “And no one’d blame you for being outta practice. It had been, oh—” Crowley counted on his fingers again. “—six thousan’ or so years.”

Aziraphale buried his face in his hands.

“I’m useless.”

Crowley didn’t know whether to laugh or cry for how ludicrous a statement that was. 

“Angel, you saved the whole damned planet. Well,  _ we  _ did, an’ a boy n’ his dog, and a coupla other children, n’ also some other…” He waved his hand vaguely. “…y’know, weirdos.” 

That got a little shrug out of his companion, but he muttered something that sounded like “soft” into his hands.

“Yes, fine, you’re soft!” Crowley growled with a burst of frustration. “What’n the bloody hell’s wrong with soft?” He laid a hand on Aziraphale’s stomach. “Soft is nice, and warm, n’comforting.” Fingertips flexed into the soft flesh of their own accord. “Soft is cashmere blankets n’ fresh baked bread and evr’ything good in the world. Angels  _ should  _ be soft.” 

He didn’t realise he’d been rubbing in small circles until Aziraphale’s hand rested on top his own, stilling it. Crowley snatched his hand back as if burned.[1]

“Sorry, I’m— demon, y’know, not good at.” He felt his face flush, which was ridiculous. Demons did not blush. He was just flushed from the wine. “All that,” he finished lamely.

Aziraphale was looking at him with wide eyes, clear blue shining bright, stunned out of their drunken haze. Fuck. He was fucking this up royally. It was too much, too fast, he was always pushing boundaries, losing control. He dropped his gaze to his lap, unable to keep looking at that open, guileless face. What he was doing was wrong, what he  _ wanted  _ was wrong, and he was going to ruin everything because he couldn’t keep his damn hands to himself.

The cushion shifted, and then whisper light fingertips pressed against his jaw, gently guiding his chin up. His breath stopped in his throat as Aziraphale’s fingers grazed up his cheeks, stroked over cheekbones and slowly pulled his glasses forward. He was frozen, a deer caught in headlights, heart pounding, wanting desperately to turn away, hide those monstrous eyes from the radiant being before him, but unable to break his gaze. Aziraphale slid the shades off his ears and down his nose, folded them neatly and placed them carefully on the coffee table, never looking away. 

“That’s better,” he said with a fond smile.

“How?” Crowley croaked. People got uncomfortable when they could see his eyes. Unsettled. 

Aziraphale’s smile grew, and he lifted his hands to Crowley’s face again, thumbs resting on his cheekbones. 

“Now I can see your beautiful eyes.”

Crowley couldn’t help it. He closed his eyes tight with a shudder. 

“Shhh…” the angel soothed, even though Crowley hadn’t said anything, rubbing his thumbs back and forth across invisible tears. “S’alright.”

Crowley shook his head minutely, because it wasn’t all right, nothing about this was right. He wasn’t meant to be touched like this, held like this, by this heavenly creature. It was impossible, sacreligious. Not that he’d ever cared for such things, but Aziraphale did, he shouldn’t be doing this, why was he doing  _ this _ , saying such lovely, false things?

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Aziraphale said, reading his mind in that infuriatingly empathic way of his. “I wouldn’t lie t’you, my dear.” His fingers stroked back through his hair, and Crowley melted into the touch. Of course he wouldn’t lie, he was good, pure. And Crowley was going to sully him, drag him down to his level. As short, manicured nails dragged against his scalp, he found it harder and harder to care. Aziraphale’s thumbs outlined the ridges and whorls of his ears, and Crowley was gone, lost in the tender caress. 

“So beautiful,” the angel whispered. His fingers swirled along his hairline, massaging his temples, and Crowley felt himself release the last bits of clenched tension he hadn’t realised he carried. Everything was loose, relaxed. He forgot himself, his past, all the reasons why this shouldn’t, couldn’t happen. 

Eventually, those soft fingertips trailed down his sideburns and stopped, hovering over the skin in hesitation.

“May I?” 

It took a moment for Crowley to register the question, and another two for him to divine its meaning. He tilted his head to the left in silent acquiescence. 

Slowly, reverently, the angel traced the demonic sigil with the pad of his index finger, following its serpentine path as it wound back on itself again and again. A distant part of Crowley worried that this, Aziraphale making the mark of a Fallen with his own hand, would be the final blasphemous act to forever tarnish him, as if he were inscribing the symbol into his own flesh, his own soul. But the angel seemed as he ever was, calm and patient and sweet, and the repetitive pattern was hypnotic, lulling Crowley deeper into this peaceful trance.

Aziraphale leaned in closer, and even with his eyes shut Crowley could feel his intent gaze.

“I’ve wanted t’ do this for ages.” He completed another circuit, and looped back again. “Touch you, here.” His other hand was cupped loosely at Crowley’s left cheek, and Crowley leaned into it, let it support him as he offered himself up to Aziraphale’s whims. Whatever he wanted to see, to touch, to caress, was his. 

“Did it hurt?”

“Are you seri’usssly asking if it hurt when I fell from Heaven?” Crowley couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “I know you like the classics, but that line’s been ‘round almost s’long as we ‘ave.”

“Mmm, not sure what you mean, but I’m ‘ntirely serious. Don’t like the idea, you, getting hurt.”

Crowley nuzzled into the palm at his cheek, inhaling the angel’s familiar scent. 

“Didn’t hurt that much. Blast of heat, white sorta pain, then bam! Mark’a the damn’d.”

What had really hurt was the soul ache, the cold emptiness inside that came with being cast out, and the gnawing hunger for something he could never reclaim. But his angel didn’t need to know all that. 

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale whispered, warm breath gusting over his ear. 

“S’ not your fault. Shouldn’t’ve pall’d aroun’ with Luci, but whatcha gonna do? B’sides, if I’d been stuck up there, never would’ve met you.” He pressed his lips into the angel’s palm to keep himself from saying more. He’d die a thousand deaths[2] if it meant he got to have this right now, whatever it was.

He heard a little gasp from Aziraphale, and for a heart-stopping second thought that he’d somehow read everything wrong, misinterpreted a friendly touch and kind words for something more, because he was a pathetic lonely bastard, and of course his innocent angel was only being a sympathetic friend, and this was why demons didn’t have friends, and he was an idiot who didn’t understand how any of this worked.

And then he felt the soft press of lips just below his temple, over the twisting black lines etched into his skin. Heavenly air breathed out over cursed flesh, and no, he wasn’t infecting the angel with his filthy sins, it was the inverse. He was being blessed, forgiven, healed. Warmth spread out from where that holy mouth touched his skin, a tingling buzz of energy that lifted the nearby hairs and sent a shiver down his spine. 

“Angel,” he sighed, and then didn’t know what else to say, because Aziraphale was tilting his head back up, level with his own, and he knew if he looked now, he’d see that bright blue gaze staring deep into his soul. 

He kept his eyes shut. 

Another puff of air, ruffling his fringe, and then the angel’s lips were on his forehead, bestowing the sweetest kiss upon his brow. It was almost too tender for him to bear, and he suddenly knew what Aziraphale had meant by too fast, because this was too much, this emotional onslaught, it would overwhelm him. It was thousands of years overdue and all happening far too soon. 

When he’d imagined it,[3] it had never been like this. He never knew it  _ could _ be like this, because it had never occurred to him that anyone, not even an angel, would ever be so gentle with a demon. He hadn’t known that this was something he wanted until this moment, and even now he wasn’t sure if he could stand it, the relentless care of it all.

The tip of Aziraphale’s nose trailed down the length of Crowley’s, then caressed each side, as if exploring Crowley’s face with his own. His hands had resumed their ministrations on Crowley’s scalp, twining through his hair and pulling him ever closer, until he felt the feather soft brush of lips against his. And then his angel was kissing him. 

_ His  _ angel. 

Was kissing.

_ Him. _

It was a revelation.

He lost himself in the smooth glide of lips, the shape of his mouth, the taste of his breath. When the angel slipped his tongue into his mouth, Crowley’s vision crackled and sparked behind closed lids, and then everything was slick wet heat. He ceased to be, could only feel, and what he felt was fire. He’d been stripped down to his core, consumed by a holy inferno that surrounded his being, licking him head to toe with white hot flames as he burned in sweet ecstasy.

When at last Aziraphale pulled back, gasping for air, Crowley found his hands were fisted in his waistcoat, and had wrenched most of the buttons undone. He blinked up at Aziraphale dumbly, barely comprehending what had just transpired. 

The angel let out a breathy laugh, and slid his hands from Crowley’s hair, attempting to smooth out the worst of the mess he’d made.

“Well. That was… cert’inly something, wasn’ it?” And oh, the slightly hoarse waver in his voice made Crowley want to gather him up in his arms and do it all over again. He tugged at the front of Aziraphale’s suit, pulling a few more buttons free as he leaned in for another kiss, but the angel’s firm hands on his shoulders halted his progress.

“Hold on there, love. Need a moment t’ catch my breath.” 

Love. He’d called him love. Heat suffused Crowley’s face again and he desperately wanted his sunglasses back. 

Aziraphale ran his hands up and down Crowley’s arms in a soothing, placating manner that Crowley would’ve found insulting if it didn’t feel so damn nice. 

“Now then, s’ no need t’ rush things.” His hands had found their way to where Crowley’s were still gripping him tight, and he gently pried the fabric from his grasp, then took both hands in his. “This is special. We should take it slow.” 

Crowley groaned and slumped back against the settee, though he didn’t pull his hands away from Aziraphale’s.

“For fucksake, Angel, I thought we  _ were _ takin’ it slow. How many more millennia d’you wanna wait?”

The infuriating creature giggled, and brought both of Crowley’s hands up to his lips, pressing small kisses into each row of knuckles before speaking. 

“Don’t worry, m’ dear, nothing like that. I jus’ don’t think we should jump into anything when we’re two sheets to the wind.”

“Oh, well thassss’easy, we can just sober up, lickety-sssplit, an’ we’ll be good t’go!” He screwed up his face in preparation for expulsion, but an insistent squeeze to his hands stopped him.

“No, no, please. Not tonight.” 

Crowley looked at his angel, who graced him with a sleepy smile. 

“Just. Let’s not. An’ anyway, isn’t this nice?” He stroked his thumbs over the backs of Crowley’s hands. “M’ enjoying the champagne, like how it feels. All fizzy.” He wriggled in that adorable way of his, and damn it all, Crowley was smitten.

“Y’know, we’ve got all the time in the world now,” Aziraphale continued thoughtfully. “Which’s quite a lot longer than it use’ta be. An’ I’ve waited too long not t’do this right. Don’t want some hurried, drunken shag on a sofa.” He giggled again, and God if the idea of doing just that, taking the angel right then and there on the sitting room furniture didn’t light something up inside Crowley.

And yet, something snagged.  _ I’ve waited too long. _ How long had he wanted this? He still wasn’t sure how an angel even could want this, least of all with him.

“How long?” Crowley heard himself say. 

Aziraphale gave a contented sigh, and settled into the cushions. 

“Oh, ages. Ages n’ ages.” He rolled his head to the side to look up at Crowley beneath heavy lids fringed with gold. “I think I loved you a bit from th’ very start, from the moment you slithered your way up t’my side at th’Eastern Gate. You were s’prisingly nice, for a demon, an’ you were making jokes — not very funny ones, mind you — but they were the first ones I’d ev’r heard. No one’d ever tried to make me laugh b’fore.” He beamed at Crowley, and it was like a small sun had switched on in his chest. “Pretty sure you’re the only one who ever has.”

Crowley swelled with pride, and didn’t feel the least bit guilty about it. His angel  _ loved  _ him. He’d earned this pride, God damn it, and he was going to enjoy the Hell out of it. 

“Don’t know when I first wanted this.” Aziraphale dropped one of Crowley’s hands to stroke his cheek, gazing deep into his eyes. “Hard to tell when I kept pushin’ it down. Couldn’t let myself want, s’ not befitting an angel. But now…”

Now they were both outcasts. Neither side wanted them, as unwelcome Above as Below. Crowley ached a bit at the thought that he was the cause of his angel’s disgrace, but quickly dismissed it as he recalled his last glimpse of Heaven, the cruelty those so-called enlightened beings showed towards Aziraphale. They were both lucky to be rid of their former allies. They were on their own side, now and forever. 

“...now I can let myself feel… well, ev’rything. S’easy for an angel to feel love, comes natur’ly, part of the whole whatsit. Y’know, love all creatures great n’ small, and so forth. But this—” He ran his thumb along Crowley’s bottom lip. “—this  _ wanting _ , s’all new to me. Never let myself… but now, s’alright, isn’t it? To touch… to  _ show _ how I feel?”

Crowley nodded breathlessly. He knew what Aziraphale meant, in a way. True, he’d done nothing but want for centuries, but desire was de rigueur for his kind. Easy as breathing,[4] no matter his firm resolve not to act on it. But this other bit, the warm, fluttery feeling in his chest, caring so much he felt sure he’d burst, this was unheard of for a demon. Lustful temptation was a given, but love? Just thinking the word made his heart stutter. It felt dangerous, and frighteningly taboo. Should be perfect for him. And if his angel was willing to explore the pleasures of the flesh, he figured it only fair to open his heart in return.

“You really want this?” he asked, kissing Aziraphale’s thumb and letting his lips linger at the tip just long enough to be suggestive. Aziraphale’s sharp intake of air was music to his ears.

“Yes,” his angel breathed. “God help me, I do.”

“With me?” And he hated how needy it sounded but he had to check. Frankly, he wasn’t sure which was the more unbelievable part.

“Of course with you, you old silly. Who else is there?”

Crowley thought of all the cold, mocking angels he’d seen in Heaven, and all the sadistic demons he’d known in Hell, and couldn’t picture a one with his angel. There were always the humans, he supposed. That did seem more Aziraphale’s style.

“Saint Francisss?” he tried, more for want of a retort than anything else.

“Y’mean ‘reformed sinner’ Saint Francis? He was too busy sampl’ng the local fungi n’ meditating in caves with his not-so-secret friend Elias,  _ and  _ he’s been dead for almost eight hundr’d years. B’sides, tempting a Saint with carnal pleasures, that’s more your lot’s deal.”

Crowley shrugged, because the angel had a point.

“It’s only ev’r been you, my dear. I’m s’prised you don’t know that by now.”

There’s knowing, and then there’s believing, and Crowley had never been much for the latter. 

“Come ‘ere,” Aziraphale sighed, and drew Crowley’s head closer, guiding it to rest on his shoulder. It wasn’t wholly unpleasant, as Crowley could smell Aziraphale much better, tucked into his neck, but after a minute or two Aziraphale’s clavicle was digging into his cheek and his neck already felt strained by the awkward stretch. It was close, but not quite what he wanted.

He reached for the angel’s waistcoat, slipping the last stubborn button free.

“Thought we were gonna take things slow,” Aziraphale chided.

“I know Angel, jus’ trust me”. 

And, miracle of miracles, he did. 

Crowley parted the garment like opening a present, revealing a clean expanse of white cotton, well worn with washing and care. Snaking his arms around that delightfully pudgy midsection, he tucked his long legs under him on the sofa and dropped his head into Aziraphale’s lap. He felt Aziraphale tense under him for a breath, then relax fully, splaying his legs and sliding forward to give Crowley better access. Crowley immediately took advantage, burrowing under the unbuttoned waistcoat to nuzzle at the fine brushed cotton beneath. His angel was even more glorious at this close proximity than he’d ever imagined. He was perhaps the most comfortable thing Crowley had ever laid his head upon,[5] and certainly the most seductive. 

He inhaled deeply, wrapping Aziraphale’s scent around him like a protective shield. There was the ever-present aroma of dusty old books, which permeated the entire space and clung to the angel’s clothing with the tenacity that decades of exposure acquired. There was bergamot tea and fine Belgian chocolate, melted in a mug of steaming heavy cream and sprinkled with cinnamon. There was the lingering alcoholic tang of the spilled champagne, its heady vapours adding to Crowley’s already impressive buzz. And there was something else, something… ineffable. 

Aziraphale’s hands found their way to Crowley’s hair, and he promptly lost his train of thought. He began to drift off, lulled by the steady, comforting rhythm of fingers stroking his hair, and a warm, soft body beneath him, and just as he lost consciousness he placed that final, elusive scent: it smelled like home. 

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


**Author's Note:**

> 1not by fire, because he was impervious, but by holy water. The holiest.[return to text]
> 
> 2or suffer a thousand discorporations[return to text]
> 
> 3and he had, despite his best efforts he’d played out every possible scenario in his head hundreds of times[return to text]
> 
> 4or falling[return to text]
> 
> 5and that was saying something, considering the demon’s expensive tastes[return to text]


End file.
